


if this is love

by tentatively



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, I Seriously Have No Idea How To Tag This, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, and they're in love, grantaire is a painter and enjolras is his muse, of sorts, probably set sometime in 20th century paris
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:42:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25340071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tentatively/pseuds/tentatively
Summary: Enjolras had loved him, but in those candle-lit hours that he had spent with him, seated atop a pedestal like an idyllic Medici posing before their commissioned artists, he hadn’t been able to put the right words into an array to present before Grantaire. He was Grantaire’s muse, his inspiration to paint on the starriest of nights and the loveliest of evenings. He had lain with him, too, kissed him on his thin lips. But the words – the words wouldn’t leave the confines of his heart. He loathed himself in those moments, moments in which Grantaire’s lips moved along the tender lines of his thighs and his words of love filled the air surrounding them. To Enjolras, it was a bone-deep anguish to not be able to say those words back.or,In the quiet of their beating hearts, Grantaire paints Enjolras.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Kudos: 35





	if this is love

**Author's Note:**

> the french that i have used is not learnt, merely taken from websites so feel free to point out mistakes, if any :)

Enjolras had eyes which burned like the fire of the Phlegethon, but they seemed fortified whenever they met Grantaire’s gaze, the way one gulps down the racing inside their heart in a desperate attempt to shield themselves away.

Grantaire’s dark, naked room in which he lived, overlooking Avenue de Clichy, glowed with the dying light of a dying candle. The looming reflection of Enjolras flickered along with the flaring embers. Grantaire’s thin, practised fingers ran swiftly across the stretch of the canvas, painting in a frenzied, passion-stricken fervour. Today, Enjolras was _Mars._

Fiery yet elegant – just like him. The hour was extraordinarily late. Enjolras’ eyes flitted across the small, dingy space in which Grantaire lodged, a clamour of canvases occupying most of it. The one across from where he was seated on a pedestal – Enjolras had no idea where the artist had scavenged that from, given he barely had any furniture other than a bed, a wooden table and a closet – was a painting of him asleep, from when Grantaire had kept him up so late that he hadn’t the strength in him to walk back home at that ungodly hour. It was something giddily intimate, something that always made roses bloom inside his heart.

Grantaire liked to call him by the name of the Greek sun god, glorious and exceedingly amorous. _My Apollo, sit down for me, please?_ He would ask, in a voice so gentle that it seemed unmatched to his rougher exterior. There had been moments, as well, moments that they had shared in the heat and anonymity of their little Parisian corner. They were an island amidst the bustling and rolling of life – liberated only in each other’s company. When a deep ache settled in his hip bones from having maintained a posture for Grantaire too long, the artist would trudge over to where he was seated and his lips would find themselves pressed against the small of Enjolras’ back, or his lower spine. In moments like these, Enjolras lived. In moments like these, Enjolras died.

Enjolras had loved him, but in those candle-lit hours that he had spent with him, seated atop a pedestal like an idyllic Medici posing before their commissioned artists, he hadn’t been able to put the right words into an array to present before Grantaire. _I love you,_ he couldn’t bring himself to say even when the artist repeated it, whispered them into his ears many a time. He was Grantaire’s muse, his inspiration to paint on the starriest of nights and the loveliest of evenings. He had lain with him, too, kissed him on his thin lips. But the words – the words wouldn’t leave the confines of his heart. He loathed himself in those moments, moments in which Grantaire’s lips moved along the tender lines of his thighs and his words of love filled the air surrounding them. To Enjolras, it was a bone-deep anguish to not be able to say those words back. _I’m his muse. Not his lover._

When Grantaire was done, he gestured Enjolras to come see himself painted as the Roman war god. In the dead silence of the room, even the slightest of Enjolras’ movements disturbed the air of stillness holding it together. It was breathtaking. Enjolras especially liked the way Grantaire painted fingers – a natural rhythm flowing out of the intensity and precision of the details. Like fingers adept at playing a heavenly lyre. Like they could create pages after pages of epic poetry. Like they were something divine, angelic. He had darkened the usual tone of Enjolras’ hair for Mars and painted it well below his neck. Enjolras wasn’t one to offer constructive comments on art, but he knew when the paint spilled on a canvas had more than just proficiency. He knew when the strokes contained volumes of feelings. 

“Thoughts?” Grantaire asked, eyes apprehensive, as if his mastery over the art had ever been a matter of doubt. As an answer, Enjolras brought him closer to his naked chest and caught his hanging lips in a sweeping kiss. “You make me more beautiful than I perceive I am,” Enjolras said.

“My Apollo, you are beautiful beyond man’s mortal perception,” Grantaire said with dramatic poesy, but sincere, loving. “I love you. Oh, how I love you.”

Once again, he turned away at those words, materially turning away from the erupting flames inside his heart. _I mustn’t say it. I mustn’t._ And then, Grantaire, who had never posed this question before, said, “Why do you never say it back?”

Truly, Enjolras wasn’t sure why. Yes, he doubted whether the artist’s love was at all that of a romantic love between two people or the love that comes from the surge of inspiration he felt coursing through him at the sight of the golden-haired boy. But perhaps, in the burning depths of his heart, he had known all along that to Grantaire, he was both muse and someone within whom his heart resided.

Perhaps, his refusal of admitting his feelings for the artist came from the realities surrounding him. In here, tucked away from the hustle and bustle of routine, of the everyday drudgery, they had found themselves a safe haven. It was Enjolras’ safe haven. It was where his heart lurched out passionately, danced at the sight of Grantaire, brush and palette in hand. It was where he could spend hours dwelling on the thickness of Grantaire’s eyelashes, or how beautifully the pink buds on his chest reacted to the warmth and wetness of Enjolras’ mouth. It was where Grantaire had taken his toes in his hands and like a devoted lover promising forever, had kissed them softly. It was where Enjolras had found his freedom – a freedom destined to be short-lived. It was not forever. Grantaire was not forever. The world had other plans for him, and he hadn’t much of a say in it.

“You do know that I am to marry Juliette next month,” Enjolras said, as if the chains of society had ever been enough to cage the wild beast called the human heart.

“I do know,” Grantaire said. His gaze was fixed on Enjolras. He swept him off his feet in one single motion as he did on many other nights, and no matter how repeated, it never failed to hasten the beating of Enjolras’ heart. Placing him down on the bed, Grantaire’s legs found themselves in between Enjolras’ long, mostly exposed ones. The artist’s face trudged closer to his own and Enjolras was sure that Grantaire was about to kiss his lips. But, he brought his face beside his left ear and dropped his chin on Enjolras’ shoulder blades. “But does that stop you from loving me?”

Closing his eyes, Enjolras took a simultaneous breath through both nose and mouth. “I can’t,” he said. “We can’t.”

“But we already have, haven’t we?” Grantaire said, his voice mellow and plaintive. “We don’t need words to claim our nights entangled in each other. This is why I paint you, Enjolras, because I cannot find the right words either. Merely saying that I love you isn’t enough. It isn’t enough to douse the flames roaring within me. _Je suis fou amoureux de toi_.”

Enjolras knew that he was right, this wild-eyed artist was as right as he was brave. Even if Enjolras had denied Grantaire the pleasure of hearing his words of love, he still had conveyed the same in the nights that he held him close, that he kissed his eyelids to lull him to sleep. Enjolras had adamantly denied himself the pleasure and freedom of confessing his unending love for the artist in a fatally destined attempt to tame his heart. He thought that perhaps if he wouldn’t vocally acknowledge his feelings for Grantaire, they would slowly wither and die.

A single tear slithered down his cheeks. He brought Grantaire’s face before him and joined their lips deeply, in a way he had never done before. Grantaire’s mouth went down lower. For a fleeting second, Enjolras opened his eyes. Behind Grantaire stood the painting of Enjolras from a month ago, as Adonis. Somehow, the artist had gathered a crown woven with myrtles for that night. He had stared at Enjolras more than at his painting. _Ah, Grantaire’s lips were fiery against his skin_. He felt the flame inside his loins. He groaned and bit his shaking lips. He held onto him for dear life. Another tear fell. Oh, it was torturous, the knowledge of certain separation. Enjolras almost wished that he could take a dip in the Lethe and forget all about Grantaire. All about everything he had ever loved.

“I love you,” Enjolras said. The skin of his throat was wet, wet with Grantaire’s tears. The twinkling of Grantaire’s eyes couldn’t be dimmed by the tears _. He loved him. Oh, how he loved him_. “I love you, Grantaire,” he said once again, perhaps to soothe the suppressed riot inside himself this time. Grantaire kissed him, and he kissed him again, and then once again. “ _Mon amour_ ,” he muttered very softly, taking Enjolras’ face into the palm of his hands. “ _Sans toi, je ne suis rien._ What would I do without you?”

Enjolras had always known that their love was doomed, destined to crash and burn. And perhaps, it still was. But right now, their doomed love seemed on the verge of invincible, something deathless – something the Muses sang about, something poets wrote verses on. Their love would live; it would live inside them and inside this little hearth across a bustling avenue of Paris. 

**Author's Note:**

> ever so slightly inspired by portrait of a lady on fire
> 
> i'd love to know what you thought! x


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